


Ninon

by fawntaire



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Dad!jolras, M/M, Teacher!Grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 23:05:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3506114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawntaire/pseuds/fawntaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras' daughter has always had bad luck with teachers. At École Myriel, she and her father may find a school worth staying in, and teachers worth keeping close.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ninon

i.                     september

 

“The Enjolras girl is coming today. You nervous, Grantaire?”

“Why would I be nervous? She’s a student, like the rest of them.”

“I talked to my friend Bilodeau, he works at École Madeleine and he says that her father got the last teacher she had fired for making her speak in front of the class.”

“Bullshit.”

“No, apparently the teacher was devastated. He’d been working there for almost three years. Had to move back to his hometown.”

“Ouch, back to the parents? That’d be a nightmare, wouldn’t it, Éponine?”

“Don’t lump my parents in with yours. Anyways, I’m sure it won’t be that bad. New students come in all the time.”

“I feel bad for the girl, honestly. Apparently this is her third school in a year and a half.”

“Grantaire will be fine. He’s a good teacher. Aren’t you, Grantaire?”

“Mm. I’m not worried.”

“Why do you look worried?”

“That’s just my face. I’ve got a naturally worried… face.”

“Bullshit.”

 

Growing up, Enjolras didn’t think he wanted children of his own. He thought it too big a burden to bear; ironic considering his vision of the future included the dependence of many fully grown humans on his skills. Well, it wasn’t the goal anyways, but it certainly would be a side effect of his chosen path.

But at eighteen, after a night of uncharacteristically excessive drinking thanks to a family fight, he had met a woman at a train station. And four weeks after that, he was informed she was pregnant. And one week after that, he was informed she was keeping it and he could be as involved or uninvolved as he wanted.

After evaluation and critical thinking, after pro-ing and con-ing, after pacing paths into the hardwood of Combeferre’s apartment, Enjolras decided that he would be involved. He would help because it was, in his eyes, the right thing to do. It certainly helped that Floréal was amiable enough. She understood who he was and what he had done and still accepted his offer to do right by her.

It was one drunken night. He didn’t expect to come out of it with the most amazing of consequences.

Stopping at the red light before an intersection, Enjolras takes the chance to steal a look at his daughter. It was true, he stole many looks at her during the day, but even in the procession of picture after picture of his daughter, unaware he was watching, he would never get bored of looking at her. Her brown curly hair, the way the outer edges of it seem to colour his shade of blonde in the light. Her brown eyes she got from her mother’s side, but the dimples in her golden cheeks match his sweetly enough. The girl is small for nine, but so was he, when he was her age.

She is half of him. But sometimes he thinks she is all of him.

The girl had moved in with him two years ago. Floréal, finally clocking the amount of hours she needed, was hired as a pilot for Air France. A lifelong dream to fly finally realized, a perfect plan, if not for one detail: week after week she’d be flying away from her daughter. Enjolras knows Floréal. She knows she loves their daughter. But she wasn’t the dream before that fateful Christmas ten years ago.

He told her if he got to realize his dream and have Ninon, she should too. ‘Don’t concentrate on the flying away,’ Enjolras had said, ‘Concentrate on the flying back. Flying home.’

The next day, she sat them both down and asked if Ninon was able and willing to move in with her father.

It wasn’t a question for either of them.

He admits that there have been hard times. But his sister is always available to babysit, if his nights get too late. He thought it might become a problem when her boyfriend moved in, but Marius is always willing, too, to look after the girl. And even then, if they were busy, he had an army of friends ready to take up the responsibility.

He gets teary-eyed if he thinks about it too long, how many people love him and his daughter enough to fit her into their lives, like she was always meant to be there.

Ninon runs her fingers down the straps of her new backpack, sitting on the car seat beside her. She is thinking of her old backpack, of its graveyard that was the rue Marchand. She is remembering the way the pages of her notebook flew across the street like butterflies.

Through the rearview mirror, Enjolras catches her wincing at the memory.

He says back to her, as soothingly as he can, “If this one is bad, too, we’ll find you somewhere else.”

Ninon licks her small lips and looks back at him in the mirror. He holds up a pinky from the front seat. She stares at it for a second before holding up her own.

In the mirror, he sticks his tongue out at her. She giggles and returns the gesture. In that moment, he’s convinced Ninon’s smile has absolved every sin he’s ever committed.

The light turns green.

 

“M. Enjolras!” Éponine is the one that greets them when they walk into the school, tiny hand clutching the bigger. “Éponine Thénardier. School counselor. Welcome to École Myriel.”

“Hello,” Enjolras takes the woman’s hand and she squeezes it warmly.

Éponine crouches down to Ninon’s length, outstretching a hand for hers as well. “And you must be Ninon,” she smiles, “You can call me Éponine.”

Ninon draws her chest up, putting her hand into the woman’s as professionally as she can. How much she looks like her mother in this instant, Enjolras thinks. Once Éponine’s hand has finished squeezing hers, she pulls back into herself. She steps back towards her father, one of her hands balled nervously by her skirt.

“Right, well, our normal practice here is to take the new students in to have a chat with me first,” Éponine says, “Just to outline their goals and their hopes for the school. Maybe some suggestions for ways to get involved with the other students. Then I’ll see to it that she’ll get to her homeroom teacher, M. Grantaire.”

Enjolras looks down at his daughter. His hand comes up to smooth down a stray curl and she turns to face him.

Éponine must have caught the subtle look of worry flashing across Enjolras’ face because she asks, “Would you like to join us?”

“I would, yes,” Enjolras starts to say. But the end of his sentence is cut off by the ring of his cell phone. He digs into his jacket and Ninon lets her hand fall from his. “Excuse me,” he apologizes, moving back towards the windows.

Éponine nods, her lips just a bit too tight. Enjolras knows she’s judging him.

“Enjolras,” the man says as a greeting.

‘ _It’s Bahorel. They’ve moved Imam’s flight up_ ,’ says the voice on the other end of the line, ‘ _His parents need to be at the airport in an hour_.’

“Sh—“ Enjolras catches his swear, turning away from Ninon and Éponine with a twist of his mouth, “Okay. Okay, I’ve got to pick them up. Call and tell them I’m on my way.”

_‘Roger that, chief.’_

Enjolras runs his hand over his mouth as he turns, his eyes apologetic. In her attempt to keep her arms from crossing, Éponine smiles again and clutches her hands before her.

Enjolras kneels before his daughter, reaching up to grasp both of her hands firmly.

“Ninon, I’ve got to go,” he says, “I’m sorry, it’s—“

“It’s important,” she nods, without any hint of disappointment or mistrust. She’s used to it and he’s sorry that she is. But he’s so glad and counts himself lucky that she understands.

“Brave girl,” he says, and her small lips wobble into a smile. He matches her smile before he leans forward, pecking her gently on the cheek, “Uncle Valjean will pick you up when school’s out.”

“Okay, Papa.”

Enjolras stands and smiles a much more resigned sort of smile at Éponine. “Is there any way I could check out her classroom before I go?”

“Absolutely,” she nods, gesturing behind her, “M. Grantaire’s room is down the second hallway. He’ll be the third door on your right.”

“Thank you. It was nice meeting you,” Enjolras says and the woman nods again, before turning to Ninon.

“Follow me, sweetheart,” she says warmly, outstretching a friendly hand as she starts slowly down the hall.

Enjolras nods at his daughter encouragingly. Ninon takes a deep breath, swivels on the balls of her feet, and follows after the school counselor.

He walks quickly after she’s out of sight. Imam’s parents have been waiting for so long for their son to finally come to this country and he would be damned if they weren’t going to be there for his arrival.

Turning down the hallway, he counts the doors until M. Grantaire’s. But the room is unmistakable – a green felt banner hangs above the doorway, with white felt letters announcing his name. Enjolras blinks at the playfulness of such a plain decoration and takes a step into the room.

He is immediately surprised at how much colour is splashed against the walls of the classroom. The corkboards against the wall beside him are covered with the students’ self portraits. Decals of butterflies cover half of the windows, the parts of them meticulously labeled. Pots of vibrant flowers sit idle on a table behind an acoustic guitar in the far corner of the room.

The man he presumes is Grantaire – he’s giving him the benefit of the doubt at the moment, seeing as the man is clad in a paint-splattered cardigan at eight in the morning – stands in the middle of the group of children. They are all chatting excitedly, the buzz in the air like that of a colony of honey bees.

One of the children raises both hands and exclaims, “The sun!” as though the words meant ‘Eureka!’

The man throws his head back and laughs. The children around him break out in such a delighted frenzy at the action and his proceeding nod that Enjolras can’t help but break into a chuckle himself.

That’s when the teacher finally turns, his wild black curls bouncing around his head, to see him standing in the doorway.

“Oh, hi,” the man steps out of the circle towards Enjolras, stretching his hand out, “Enjolras, I presume?”

“Yes,” Enjolras takes the offered hand.

“I’m Grantaire,” he says, “Very nice to meet you. We all look forward to having Ninon join our class.”

Grantaire’s smile is a kind one, an honest one. He almost gets lost in it. Almost.

“I unfortunately can’t stay. Emergency at work,” Enjolras explains and the teacher nods, with a face that Enjolras understands to be some sort of faux-sympathy, “I just wanted to see the state of your classroom before I left.”

 “Ah,” Grantaire looks behind him, at the mess of art and colour, and then back at the man, “I try to create an enjoyable learning environment.”

The man says nothing, only nodding. His eyes still travel around the room curiously; there is much to see in the small space.

“May I ask you a question, M. Enjolras?”

“Go on,” Enjolras nods.

“There are whispers that your daughter’s last two teachers—“

“They deserved to be fired,” Enjolras says immediately.

He doesn’t have time to explain, he really doesn’t. The man must be mistaking his hurried nature for anger because he draws back nervously.

Enjolras catches the clock above Grantaire’s desk, the time sliding away with the smooth motion of the second hand.

“I’m sorry,” he tugs on the collar of his coat, “I really do have to go. It was nice to meet you.”

“Oh,” Grantaire stutters, following after the man as he turns and starts towards the door at the end of the hall, “Wait, M. Enjolras!”

Enjolras stops, his feet itching, his heart pounding with the anxiety of time edging at his ankles. Most likely he had to help them close up shop, or help them find someone to cover, and with the time it would take them to get to the airport, he really couldn’t spare another minute.

“Is there anything I can do to avoid the same fate?” Grantaire asks, with a pleading edge in his voice.

“Yeah,” Enjolras nods, pivoting back to stare at the young teacher, “Don’t put my kid in front of the class and make fun of her while she’s trying to read. Don’t call her slow or stupid, and we won’t have a problem.”

Grantaire’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Teachers don’t do those things.”

The high-pitched ringing of Enjolras’ cell phone cuts through the air. He brings it up to his ear, just before calling back to Grantaire, “You would think.”

 

At Ninon’s last school, Enjolras had tried a different approach. He had tried to be the parent that the teachers liked to try and ease Ninon’s assimilation into the new environment. It was a different approach than his usual; in these situations Enjolras’s default attack was to strike fear.

Yes, he tried to strike fear into the teachers of Ninon’s school before the last, École Tholomyes. The school that locked his little girl in a closet.

So the time after that, Courfeyrac and Combeferre had suggested that maybe kindness was the way to go with the next teacher. The next teacher that turned Ninon’s speech and reading difficulties into a spectacle to be laughed at.

He had been in too much of a hurry to decide which tactic to employ with the École Myriel. So whatever came out came out, and unfortunately, due to the call from Bahorel, what came out was a mess of what would surely be considered snobbery.

He makes a note to try and repair this terrible first impression when he gets the chance.

It wasn’t a fair reaction. In the two minutes he had spent with the M. Grantaire, he had felt that the new teacher had seemed promising.

But, he reminds himself, the old teachers had seemed promising too, once.

 

 “Why don’t we write down something you want from this school?” Éponine asks Ninon gently, settling down beside her, “Something you want to be different.”

The girl stares at the lined paper before her.

“With learning?” she asks.

“With anything,” Éponine says, and the girl still makes no move towards the pencil. She clears her throat and pulls her own paper from the stack, slipping a pen from her shirt pocket, “See, for example, if I were to start at a new job, I’d write something like…”

Ninon looks with interest at the woman’s smooth handwriting, eager to see her example.

‘Something I want to be different,’ she writes at the top, and beneath it, ‘I want to smile some more.’

Éponine waits patiently as Ninon looks upon her answer. It takes the girl a few beats to finally reach for the pencil, to hold it in her lap as she stares at her own piece of paper.

“Will any of the other kids see this?” she asks Éponine.

“Of course not, Ninon,” she says to the girl, “None of the other students will see anything we work on in here, not unless you want them to.”

“I don’t.”

“Then they won’t,” Éponine promises.

It doesn’t take the girl long to decide that she’s telling the truth.

 

The end of the school day at École Myriel is always a marvel of organized chaos. At the ring of the bell, kids spill out of the building like bees shaken from their hive, some running to the grasses to play, others skipping right home through the streets of Paris.

Grantaire stands outside, supervising the kids that wait for their parents.

Grantaire watches as Ninon sits back on a bench facing the grass. She scrapes her clean sneakers against the ground, surveying the other children as they laugh and play. He watches her shoulders rise and fall with a sigh.

“Au revoir, M. Grantaire!” comes a voice from his right and he claps the girl’s shoulder fondly.

“ À demain, Kameel,” he smiles.

Grantaire is just about to walk up to Ninon and make conversation when a kind-looking older man comes up to her, a big smile plastered across his face. She immediately stands to embrace him, her comfort clearly expressed on her face.

She looks like a whole different child, laughing and nodding, as the man takes her hand and leads her down the street.

As the kids start to filter away and only conversing parents remain in the yard, Grantaire pushes from his place against the wall and moves into the school. He is greeted almost immediately by Éponine emerging from the office hallways, a manila file folded in her arms.

“How was your day?” she asks.

“Same as always,” he smiles at her as they march down the halls, “Yours?”

Éponine ignores his question, as she’s like to do when she speaks just to say something specific. “She’s a quiet one, isn’t she?” she asks.

“Ninon?”

“No,” Éponine wrinkles her nose at the man, “The other girl that came in today.”

“She’s just nervous,” Grantaire waves his hand as she follows him into the classroom.

“You know, her father was in quite the hurry to leave.”

“Mm, trust me, I know,” Grantaire says, tilting his glance at her in a way that says, ‘ _That asshole, right?_ ’

“My first instinct was rich snob. The way he was scrutinizing everything in the school from the moment he walked in, taking the calls like we had the time to stand and wait,” Éponine says.

“Do you know what he does?” Grantaire asks, clearing his throat, “Maybe it was something important.”

“No,” Éponine shakes her head, and then narrows her eyes at him, “And didn’t I tell you not to forgive anybody because of their pretty faces? I remember that being a very serious conversation we had once upon a time.”

Grantaire snorts, “Please, Ponine, we were eight.”

He swings around in his chair, reaching for the water bottle sticking out of his bag. Éponine watches him with a playful scowl, not at all surprised when he speaks out of the side of his mouth just before he takes a sip.

“But he does have a very, very forgivable face.”

Éponine brings the files up, swiping him sideways across the back of the head, effectively spilling water across the calendar on his desk. He groans at her sudden remorse, and the giggles she’s trying to hide along with it, as she reaches for the tissue box against the chalkboard. They both set to mopping up the mess.

“Sometimes I think you carry things in your hands with the sole intention of hitting me with them,” Grantaire scowls.

Éponine waves the accusation away, a soaked tissue balled in her fist, and continues, “Anyways, after talking to Ninon… I’m not sure that’s his case.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, nobody can be like that and raise a girl like Ninon.”

“You’ve taken quite a liking to her, haven’t you?” he asks.

“More like… a protective instinct,” she says, “The girl is afraid of school. It’s my job to make sure to avoid that kind of thing.”

“Well, from the _Ten Second Guide to Not Getting Fired by the Hot Lawyer_ I got this morning,” Grantaire says, ignoring the look that flashes across Éponine’s brow at his shoddy title, “I don’t think it’s going to be too hard to get her on our side. Or at least, I hope. I haven’t been called a monster by any of our students. Not seriously.”

“Yeah, well,” she pulls the folder out finally, setting it on the newly dry desk before Grantaire, “It’s not just us she’s worried about.”

After looking up at her face, at the pity seeped into her bones behind it, he reaches forward and flips it open.

‘Something I want to be different,’ it says, in Ninon’s loopy handwriting, ‘I want them not to laugh at me.’

 

Impressively, Enjolras manages to pick Ninon up from Uncle Valjean’s house just before the clock strikes five. They walk home with Ninon’s arm weaved in her father’s, her polka dot backpack thrown over one of his shoulders.

“So, how was your day today?” he asks and Ninon sighs contentedly into the crook of his arm.

“Éponine and M. Grantaire say what you say,” Ninon says.

“Do they?”

“They said there are a lot of different kinds of smart,” the girl nods, “M. Grantaire says everyone is good at something.”

“They sound like very wise people,” Enjolras replies. Ninon leans into his arm and nods again.

They’re quiet as they walk along the paths of trees, dodging the people with a learned ease. Every now and then Enjolras finds the itching urge to lift his hand up and give his little girl a twirl, which she responds to with a giggle that lifts his tired heart to the sky.

“I’m a bit scared to like it at this school,” Ninon says, like she’s admitting a secret to someone who had not actually asked.

“Are you, love? Why?”

“Because,” she twists her mouth as they turn down the street towards the house, “if I like it, it might end somehow. And then I’ll be sad.”

“You still don’t have to be there if you don’t want to, you know,” Enjolras says to her gently, “You’ve got your pick of any of us to home school you. Aunt Cosette, or Uncle Courf, or whoever.”

The girl shakes her head into his arm. All she says is, “School is good, sometimes. I want to stay for the ‘sometimes.’”

They skip up the steps to the red door and Enjolras digs into his pocket for the keys. Just before he slides the key into the lock, he lowers himself onto bended knee beside his little girl. She blinks at him, an eyebrow raised.

“You’re good at loads of things, you know that, Neen?” he says, just to make sure she knows it.

“Like cello,” Ninon nods.

“Yes, but not just cello,” Enjolras straightens out the girl’s cardigan, “You’re good at being kind and forgiving and loving everybody that loves you.”

“But I’m really really good at cello,” Ninon giggles and Enjolras grins, reaching up to pinch her nose.

“You’re really really good at cello.”

 

Ninon had first picked at a cello when she was three years old. Jehan had come over to Cosette’s apartment to prepare for their recital at university. Falling on a day where Floréal was flying over god knows where and Enjolras was elbows deep in his new internship and Uncle Valjean was having a particularly hard time with a health inspector with some kind of vendetta against him, the two had graciously accepted the task of practicing _and_ babysitting.

That night, despite the late time they had both arrived at Cosette’s apartment, Floréal and Enjolras walked in to see Ninon mimicking the movements of Jehan’s playing.

Ninon’s first cello had been a group present for her fourth birthday. It wasn’t anything particularly remarkable, not on the budgets that everybody had, either freshly out of university or working their way through graduate school. But Ninon loved the cheap thing, and all of the versions that have been gifted in the five years since then, and spent as much time around it as she could. Upon waking, she would run straight to it, even before Floréal could ask what she wanted for breakfast.

It wasn’t hard to get Jehan to become her teacher. Fantine even made it an easy transition upon his hiring at her music school.

The girl has gotten so good, Jehan has almost nothing left to teach her. He will survey her exercises, he will watch her play, but upon fumbling, the girl will stop on her own. She will turn back and begin again, the mistake righted. Mostly, he jokes, he is there to be her accompaniment.

Fantine has offered time and time again to get Ninon an interview and audition at better music schools, with the support of Jehan, of course.

But Ninon doesn’t want to leave her Uncle Prouvaire. Ninon is not one to push past her comfort boundaries, and Enjolras and Floréal respect her decision to stay where she wishes.

She is only nine, after all. There’s plenty of time for her to change her mind.

 

ii.                   october

 

École Myriel’s first round of parent-teacher meetings are early in the second month of school. The school selects a night for parents to speak with their child’s homeroom teacher one-on-one to ensure the child is getting the most out of their time.

Grantaire hates the meetings, to be honest. The kids he can handle, obviously. But the parents often have an extra degree of zeal for their offspring. They all expect to be told their child will grow up to be the best of the best.

It is a tiring thing for him to try and step around. (Not that he doesn’t believe in his students, obviously. It’s just that he can’t predict the future and doesn’t like to pretend he can.)

It’s even more tiring when they act as though the meeting is a complete waste of their time.

He stares at Enjolras’ name, scrawled at the very end of the list. All of the other parents had taken times closer to the end of school, or the end of the business work day, at least. But Enjolras had chosen eight o’clock, the very last interview time.

He would have at least an hour to kill in between the second last meeting, and Enjolras’.

Sometimes he hates how the whole loving-his-students and loving-his-job thing cuts into his sitting-on-the-couch time.

By the time the Villeroche parents leave, the school is practically empty. It’s a little eerie to Grantaire, as he is so used to seeing his classroom alive and buzzing, the room crowded with excitable children calling for attention.

He pulls out a sketchbook and his music and sets to work. He doesn’t set out with any specifics as to what he is drawing. Whatever lines his pencil decides to connect that day and in what fashion are not usually up to him. It is something therapeutic to Grantaire, although sometimes punishing, that he would be seeing what his subconscious wished to express.

It’s half past seven when Grantaire realizes he’s drawing the man from memory. His frustration at the how the man’s tie sits at the base of his neck is what pulls him from the trance. No matter how he tilts his pencil, drags it across the page, the tie seems either too straight or too rumpled.

He drops the pencil, leaving a smudged mess in the middle of the man’s chest.

He had only known the man for those two minutes, only catching faraway glimpses of him when hehas had the time to pick up Ninon from school. But he knows enough to know that his likeness of Enjolras’ face was confused. Most of the times the man has on what looks like a permanent scowl, which is not exactly to say that he is unhappy most of the time. In fact, Grantaire is very close with many people whose resting faces tend to betray some sort of imagined murderous conviction. But Enjolras, when he looked at Ninon, when he spoke with her, looked like a man who had just discovered the warmth of the sun.

In this particular sketch, Enjolras looked like he had stepped in a puddle that soaked him down to his socks, and was unable to decide whether or not to be glad for it.

Grantaire picks up his pencil, scrubs the man’s face from the picture, and replaces it with a bouquet of carnations. Where the stubborn tie had sat, he draws something deliberately crooked, almost like a thin thunderbolt.

Sighing, Grantaire glances with distaste at the clock. It’s already fifteen past eight. He specifically made an exception for Enjolras at his request. All the leniency afforded to that man and he can’t even bother to show up for a fifteen minute meeting with his daughter’s teacher.

Huffing, Grantaire closes his sketchbook and tucks the pencil in the coil. He slips the book into the beat up leather backpack at his feet and reaches over his desk to turn his lamp off.

It is at that moment that the sound of dress shoes slapping against linoleum echoes in the hallway, getting steadily louder. Grantaire starts as Enjolras appears in the doorway, his golden hair disheveled, his scarf falling from his slender neck.

“I am here,” he all but cries, panting as he plants a hand on the classroom’s doorframe to steady himself.

“M. Enjolras,” Grantaire exclaims, setting his backpack back down on the ground, “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to make it.”

“I’m so sorry,” Enjolras apologizes, clearly out of breath, “I came straight from work. I didn’t have time to pick up Ninon from her aunt’s.”

“Did you… run here?” Grantaire raises an eyebrow, a small grin breaking onto his face despite himself.

“Just from the car,” Enjolras says sheepishly.

Grantaire is not sure he will ever fully understand this confusing mess of a person, wrapped up in the picturesque package he is. All at once, tardy and eager, unpunctual and caring.

“Right, well,” Grantaire claps his hands on his jeans and then gestures to the rolling chair he had borrowed from Musichetta’s classroom, “You can have a seat if you’d like.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras nods and settles into it, biting back a pained sigh, like it’s the first pause he’s had in the day.

“Right, well,” Grantaire repeats, ruffling through the papers on his desk. He produces a blue page, with Ninon’s writing across it, “Just before these meetings come around, I get the students to fill out self-evaluations.”

He passes the piece of paper over the desk.

‘Name: Ninon Kim Enjolras, Teacher: M. Grantaire.’

The questions about the fairness of the work and the fairness of his grading are answered simply: ‘Yes, they are fair.’ Enjolras makes a note to ask her about that later – does she really feel this way, or is there some thought in the back of her mind about them that he could help to expand?

The questions following seem to have been more of a struggle for Ninon to answer.

Beside ‘Are you happy with your teacher?’ Ninon has written a simple ‘yes’. There are smudges beside the word. It looks as though she had written things beside it and then erased them so many times the paper had thinned.

‘Are you happy with your classmates?’ asks the question below it. The smudge behind the words are just the same. Her answer: ‘I don’t know them enough to tell.’

Enjolras reads this answer aloud, thoughtfully. Instead of a frown of agreement, Grantaire’s lips curve in a sorry smile.

“I’ve seen a couple of the kids try to chat her up during free time,” he says, “She’s getting more comfortable with being approached, but she never really responds to their invitations affirmatively.”

“She hasn’t exactly had too many of them in the past,” Enjolras is sorry to say.

Grantaire is sorry to hear it, too.

“Have you thought about enrolling her in some kind of after school program?” Grantaire asks, “Something extracurricular to get her more involved with her peers?”

“She spends most of her free time at her music program,” Enjolras says, “She has actually tried to do more than just school and music in the past, but the interaction exhausts her.”

One of the things Grantaire likes most about the way Enjolras talks about his daughter is that he never acts as though her feelings are unjustified. He never shakes his head or says, ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do about that girl.’ He accepts how she feels about being around people, about simultaneously needing them around and needing them to stay away.

He doesn’t push and shove to make her better. He only tries to help her grow as she wishes.

But the two are surprised, or rather, pleased, at how many things they agree on when it comes to Ninon. Enjolras, though somewhat reluctant due to his wariness about Ninon’s comfort level, agrees to try and invite one of the other children over to their house for an afternoon. Grantaire recommends series of books that he believes she might be interested in – certain ones that he’s gotten into trouble for recommending in the past, honestly, but Enjolras takes them down gratefully.

The meeting runs well past the expected fifteen minutes. They’re so lost in conversation that neither of them realizes the last mention of Grantaire’s teachings methods and the tendencies of children had been at least ten minutes prior to Enjolras’ comment of the art currently pinned on the corkboards against the wall.

“Not much variance in the subject matter,” Enjolras gestures jokingly at the pieces, “Any particular reason for these?”

It was a bit comical, actually, how many of the watercolours and pastels and charcoals had the same geometrical birds on them.

“I, uh, tell them they can draw whatever they want and they…” Grantaire trails off.

When Enjolras turns to see why, the teacher is rolling up his sleeves. He stumbles back, just at the sheer surprise of the unexpected action. And then he sees them. Scrolling up his arms, disappearing into his green henley. A flock of beautifully detailed and expertly done black and white birds.

“Tattooed elementary teacher,” Grantaire smiles awkwardly, breaking the silence, “Scandal, I know.”

Enjolras stares, unmoving. He was the one to roll up his sleeves to be examined in the first place, but suddenly Grantaire feels as though he is under microscopic scrutiny. He slides them back into place, clearing his throat, and Enjolras looks back at his face. For a moment, some familiar look flashes in his eyes, but it’s gone as quick as Grantaire can notice it.

“Anyways,” Enjolras waves his hand in the air, reaching for his jacket on the back of the chair, “It’s getting quite late.”

“Are you parked out in the lot?” Grantaire asks, gathering up his own bag and hat. “We can walk together.”

“Oh. Alright.”

Luckily, the man’s moment of awkwardness does not last the entire walk out to the cars. He regains his comfort as they turn down the hallways to the side exit, holding the hall doors open to Grantaire with a nod.

“Why did you become a teacher?” Enjolras eventually asks, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

“Éponine’s little brother, actually,” Grantaire says, “The Thénardiers are a sort of…”

Grantaire is wary of saying too much. Éponine loves Ninon and all of her quirks, but nothing of that will lend much trust to her father.

“They’re complicated,” he resolves to say, “But I grew up around him, helped him sort out what troubles he had when I could.”

He’s stepping around a lot of his past, carefully. Grantaire might have some sort of trust in this man after what they’ve talked about tonight. But Enjolras is still a parent to one of his students, and a parent that would most definitely care about the past his daughter’s teacher has. Selective truths, Grantaire reminds himself, and bites his tongue.

“And one day he thanked me. Sat me down and laid it out and bit down his sarcastic whip of a tongue and thanked me,” a wistful smile pulls against Grantaire’s lips, “It took me a while, but that moment was how I knew that this is what I wanted to do. I love to teach and I just hope to make students eager to learn.”

Enjolras nods, catching the dreamy tone in Grantaire’s words with an appreciative smile.

“Well, I am glad to say that you achieve that with my daughter,” Enjolras says, “Glad and grateful.”

“Oh,” Grantaire exhales, suddenly speechless. He’s gotten compliments on his teaching before, of course, just never with such profound honesty. He’s glad for the dimmed lights of Paris that evening as his hand comes up to scratch the back of his neck nervously.

“I mean it,” Enjolras insists, “She’s never been as excited to be going to school and doing homework as she’s been since she’s been in your class. And nobody treats her differently and I think we owe that to how you teach them.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” he says, finding his footing again, “It shouldn’t be as hard for students to like school as some teachers apparently make it.”

He doesn’t say it to provoke anything from Enjolras. He just wants him to know that he disapproves of the actions of those teachers just as much as Enjolras does, even if he wouldn’t go to the lengths the man has.

“I did offer to home school her, you know,” Enjolras sighs in a tired defense anyways, “Almost everybody we know, we all did.”

“She refused?” Grantaire asks.

“She still chose school,” he nods, “Sometimes I think it’s because she thinks I can’t leave my job for her. But I think she’s proven that’s not the case.”

The man was willing to drop everything to be able to give the girl an environment she felt comfortable in. Grantaire takes the man’s sharing nature as an opportunity to ease his curiosity.

“And what do you do, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I work with OFPRA,” Enjolras says, “Or against them sometimes, honestly. I help refugees get asylum. Reunite them with their kids, if the need calls. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, I can set them up with a job.”

Grantaire closes his mouth just in time to save himself from looking like a fish out of water. He gulps and smiles an uneasy smile, “Ah. So you’re a proper hero then?”

Something about Grantaire’s words eases the crow’s feet around Enjolras’ eyes. He shakes his head and returns the smile with something much more brilliant. His eyes sparkle when he says, “I’ve always thought the real heroes start with the teachers.”

A grin creeps up across Grantaire’s face, a grin that’s so big even he can feel it stretching his cheeks. In an attempt to calm it, he lets out some kind of sound that is just barely a scoff, just barely a laugh.

“What’s wrong?” Enjolras asks, his smile unaltered.

“It’s just,” Grantaire kicks at the ground like a schoolboy, before furrowing his eyebrows at the man, “You didn’t seem so… agreeable the first time we met.”

Enjolras exhales, licking his lips. “I was an ass,” he admits, “I just didn’t know how Ninon’s next teacher would be. My protectiveness over her, it’s–“

“Warranted,” Grantaire finishes.

This draws a smile out of Enjolras. “Anyways, I’m sorry for how I came off,” the man says sincerely.

“It’s alright,” Grantaire waves his hand, “Thank you for the thought.”

“I probably owe Mme. Thénardier an apology as well,” he says.

Grantaire practically chokes with laughter at the name. He grins at the man, shaking his head, “Well, if you would like to be heard, I would not lead with calling her Mme. Thénardier.”

Enjolras smiles and nods, “I’ll keep that in mind, then.”

“Anyways… Ninon is a great girl, I mean that,” Grantaire says, and adds in a way he hopes won’t come off selfishly or suspiciously, “You and your wife are very lucky.”

“Her mother and I are very lucky,” Enjolras says, in such a corrective way that Grantaire’s face coerces him to continue, “No wife to be had around here.”

“No?” is all Grantaire’s coward mouth can bring itself to say.

“Yeah, unfortunately, not a lot of guys into the workaholic single father bit,” Enjolras shrugs as he starts the car.

Grantaire freezes. His mind replays the sentence a couple times, to make sure he’s heard it right, and after he’s accepted the paradox, it’s not sure which part of the sentence to focus on. _Not a lot of guys. Workaholic single father. Guys? Single?_

He’s never short circuited like this before.

“Right,” Enjolras clears his throat in the silence and smiles, his eyes catching the moonlight, “Good night, Grantaire.”

Grantaire watches the car until it pulls out of the parking lot.

 

 “Just ask him out,” Éponine shoves his shoulder gently and he whines into his hands, “Maybe he dropped that bomb on you because he wanted you to know.”

“I don’t want him to think I’m being nice to his daughter just because I want to bone him, Éponine,” Grantaire sighs and drops his hands.

The fluorescent lights buzz above them. Grantaire finds such comfort in the sound, which is good, considering their conversation topic is anything but comforting.

Something about the staff room at École Myriel feels much cozier than any place they’ve ever worked together. The school hours have the place feeling more like their own living room than their respective hole-in-the-wall apartments. It certainly helps that Mme. Hucheloup had ordered such comfortable couches – Grantaire might sleep on them, if he were to decide he liked the feeling of a smack on the back of the head as a morning alarm.

“He wouldn’t dare,” Éponine shakes her head, “From what I’ve seen, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to that girl’s education.”

He swirls the coffee in his cup and mutters, “I can’t even imagine how that girl must have felt.”

“Yes, you can,” Éponine reminds him softly, “We’ve been friends for forever. I know you, Grantaire. I know you’ve felt the same. And that’s why you can be so good to her.”

Grantaire exhales into a small smile, gently clapping his hand over Éponine’s on his forearm. He looks up at her face.

“That’s probably why you can be good to her, too,” Grantaire says, “Because you were good to me.”

Éponine wrinkles her nose in an attempt to hide the smile that is twitching at her lips. Grantaire chuckles and she gives into it, pressing her forehead against his shoulder with a whine. Turning his head, he places a kiss on her hair.

“Okay,” she shakes herself of the moment, looking seriously at him again, “moving on. I’m calling bullshit. You don’t just want to bone him, Grantaire.”

“No,” Grantaire admits with a grimace, “It’s bad.”

“I can tell,” she smirks and he groans. “What degree of bad are we talking though? Just so I know what I’m about to deal with.”

“Like… like I can’t believe it took so long for him to walk into my life,” Grantaire sinks into the table, his hands coming up to grip the sides of his neck.

“Oh my god,” Éponine smacks the table and Grantaire cringes up at her, “You did not just say that.”

“I did,” he sighs, “I might have.”

“Shit,” she says.

“Shit,” he agrees.

“You guys,” Musichetta walks into the staff room at that moment, jokingly frowning at the two, “This is an elementary school. Do you know what that means?”

“When we talk strategy, we include all the soldiers on the battlefield,” Éponine recites, before grinning up at the woman.

Musichetta nods proudly and squeezes Éponine’s shoulder. “Who are you guys talking about?”

“No one,” Grantaire says at the same time Éponine chimes, “Enjolras.”

“The girl or the elf-man?”

“He’s not tall enough to be an elf,” Grantaire grumbles and Musichetta laughs triumphantly.

“But he carries himself like one, doesn’t he?”

“Grantaire’s got it bad for him,” Éponine grins and Musichetta lets out a low whistle.

“Stop it,” he says, feeling like he’s the one out on the schoolyard and not his students, “Stop it right now.”

“I’m pretty sure Joly works with his best friend at the hospital, actually,” Musichetta muses, popping her bottom lip out, like she’s deep in thought. “Combeferre, I think? You know, actually, we could set up some kind of big party at our house and, oh no, look at that, Combeferre’s brought in Enjolras, and then we’ll tell him you’re in love with him and lock you in the closet together until you realize that the only way you’re getting out is to literally get married in there. Inside that closet.”

Éponine practically slips out of her chair from laughing so hard.

“Going forward, I will be highly suspicious of any invitations coming from you three,” Grantaire scowls at the woman, despite his reddening ears.

“Because you would absolutely not want to take advantage of the time locked in a dark closet with him?” Éponine teases.

Grantaire responds with a strangled scream at the woman.

“Aw,” Musichetta coos, petting the man’s hair down, “Why don’t you look him up on facebook?”

“Yeah, why don’t you?” Éponine asks at the same time Grantaire mumbles, “He doesn’t have one.”

 

 “Do you think there’s a rule?” Enjolras asks Combeferre and the man quirks an eyebrow.

“A rule about what?”

“About asking out your daughter’s teacher.”

The man crosses his arms and leans against the wall beside their table.

“I feel like it may be frowned upon.”

“Hey!” Courfeyrac settles in next to Combeferre, producing a fork from nowhere and poking at his boyfriend’s salad, “What’s frowned upon? What are you doing now, Enjolras?”

“He wants to ask out Ninon’s teacher,” Combeferre replies immediately, much to Enjolras’ displeasure.

“Oh my god,” Courfeyrac gasps, his eyes getting this far-off dreamy look that prepares Enjolras for some sort of winding fairytale-esque monologue that he just doesn’t have the patience for at the moment.

“You haven’t wanted to ask anyone out since—“

“Don’t,” Enjolras raises one finger, pointing at his friend, “Whatever name you were about to say, don’t say it.”

“I was going to give you a time frame, actually,” Courfeyrac says, “Five years.”

“Five years is a long time,” Combeferre remarks and Enjolras scoffs.

“Some people have been busy.”

“Some people have been busy,” Combeferre mocks, “Too busy working long hours at the hospital to fall in love, I’m sure.”

Enjolras tries to frown at Courf’s surprised smile, and then the happiness that floods his friend’s face when Combeferre’s hand squeezes his.

He lets out a defeated huff instead.

“How do you know he’s even into guys?” Combeferre asks and Courfeyrac smacks the table, making the two jump.

“Good question!” Courf exclaims, before pulling out his phone. His thumbs get to work immediately, tapping the screen furiously.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras leans forward, but Courfeyrac leans back, pulling the phone out of the man’s vision, “Who are you texting?”

“Bossuet used to live with him.”

Enjolras feels his face redden madly.

“You didn’t think that was pertinent information to share when I first started talking about him, Courf?” Enjolras asks and the man shrugs.

Recognition flashes in Combeferre’s eyes and he turns to look at the man beside him. “Oh, he’s R?”

“R?” Enjolras asks.

“That’s what they call him in all the stories,” Combeferre shrugs, before reaching forward to take another sip of his drink. 

“The stories,” Enjolras repeats.

“I love Grantaire,” Combeferre says in a deadpan, and Enjolras looks up, his eyes suddenly wide and affronted.

“I was under the impression you didn’t actually know him and now all of a sudden you’re saying that you love him—“

“I was actually just wondering if you were going to repeat every single thing I was saying,” Combeferre takes a sip of his water, an amused smirk pulling at the corner of his lips, “But that whole ‘ _You didn’t call dibs though_ ’ vibe coming from your ramble was illustrative enough.”

“I did not have a vibe,” Enjolras crosses his arms, his face reddening.

“You had a vibe.”

“There was no vibe!”

“Good news,” Courfeyrac startles them by exclaiming loudly in the café. He turns his phone around, waving it excitedly, “Bisexual!”

Something lifts inside of Enjolras’ chest, some kind of dangerous hope that he hasn’t felt in… fine, in five years time.

“Are we in high school?” Enjolras tries to scowl at Courfeyrac.

“Good question,” Combeferre rebuts, his smirk hovering just above his glass, “You’re the one talking to us about him instead of talking to him about him.”

 

iii.                  (a very short) november

 

The next time Enjolras comes to pick up Ninon, he walks right into the school, right down the hall, and right into Grantaire’s classroom.

“Oh, hello,” Grantaire finds himself grinning at the man.

Musichetta shows up behind him in the doorway, her eyes wide and her thumbs up. ‘ _You can do it!_ ’ she mouths.

Grantaire hopes that, behind the smile, she can see the murder in his eyes.

“How are you?” Enjolras asks, and the rage evaporates into thin air.

“I’m great,” Grantaire nods, “How is saving the world going?”

Enjolras exhales in amusement, and it’s only then that the crow’s feet around his eyes reveal themselves. A small sigh slips out of his lips and he nods, “Uphill battle.”

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire tries to smile supportively, doing his best not to kick himself.

“Sometimes a bit hard to see the light at the end of the tunnel,” Enjolras shrugs.

He reaches out towards Ninon and squeezes the girl’s shoulder as she comes to stand next to him. Her small hand rises to tuck into his and Grantaire watches his face ease at the touch.

“It’s there though,” Grantaire says.

“I hope so.”

Ninon tugs on Enjolras’ hand and her father stoops down to meet her. The girl rises on the tips of her toes, cupping her small hand around her mouth to whisper in his ear.

“Oh, right,” the man mumbles. He tugs his case before him, unzipping the front pocket and holding it open for his daughter. The girl reaches in and produces a clean grey piece of paper.

Then she turns back to her teacher, holding it out to him.

‘ _Fantine’s Music School – Christmas Recital_ ,’ reads the bolded font across the top of the flyer.

“What’s this?” Grantaire asks as he takes the paper from Ninon’s outstretched hands. “Are you performing?”

“Yes,” Ninon nods shyly.

“What song?” Grantaire asks and Enjolras grins, squeezing Ninon’s shoulder.

“It’s a secret,” he says, “She’s even keeping it from me.”

“Intriguing,” Grantaire drawls with a smile.

In the top right hand corner, scrawled in a cursive that is definitely not Ninon’s, is ‘Grantaire.’

“We hope you can come,” Enjolras says.

_We_. Grantaire practically faints.

 

 iv.                december

 

 “So, do you think he’s coming?” Courfeyrac lifts on the balls of his feet to inspect the sauce in the giant pot. Enjolras shrugs, as if he hasn’t been thinking about it all day, as if he hasn’t been alternating between how much it would disappoint his daughter and how much it would disappoint him if Grantaire were to miss the recital.

“Mm,” Jehan waltzes into the kitchen, carrying a second pot full of newly peeled potatoes, “That sure is a long pause.”

Enjolras shakes his head of the thought, turning right back to the cutting board before him. “He better,” the man says, taking on his ‘serious father’ voice, “If he disappoints my Ninon, I’m going to kill him.”

“Right,” Courfeyrac leans back to look at Jehan behind Enjolras, “Ninon.”

“He’s just worried about Ninon,” Jehan nods right back.

“Only Ninon.”

“You guys are assholes.”

“Hey guys,” Marius waltzes into the kitchen, pulling his scarf from his neck, “What are we talking about?”

“Enjolras invited his daughter’s teachers to the recital,” Jehan sings at him, “and he’s fallen madly in love with one of them.”

“Her teachers? Grantaire and Éponine?” Marius’ face looks even redder with a sudden excitement.

“What has Cosette told you?” Enjolras narrows his eyes and Marius shakes his head.

“Nothing! Grantaire and Éponine are old friends.”

“Whose old friends?”

“Well, mine,” Marius says, clearly confused.

“Really, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac drops the wooden spoon back into the pot, throwing his hands up, “Do you talk to Marius at all?”

“Hey, we speak,” Marius interjects, just as Enjolras is about to apologize because his answer to the question was a shameful ‘Not really.’

Instead, he points the knife at the pot in front of Courfeyrac, “Don’t burn the sauce.”

It’s a hard feat, making dinner for sixteen people.

Especially when you are so sure that eighty percent of those people are going to go out of their way to embarrass you.

 

Enjolras sees Grantaire even over the crowd of his friends come to see Ninon perform. He raises a hand and waves, as though the man hadn’t spotted them, hadn’t heard them before he had even entered the hall. Grantaire weaves through the crowd of buzzing parents and bored siblings towards the group. There are many more people than he had expected—and gladly, some familiar faces beyond Enjolras’.

The man isn’t dressed in anything paint splattered this time. In fact, he’s wearing a button down, the sleeves folded up to his elbows, his tattoos visible. And skinny khakis, like he hadn’t been able to decide how nice he should have dressed for the event.

Enjolras doesn’t know how to tell him he looked perfect without making it weird.

“Thanks for coming,” Enjolras smiles at the man when he has finally reached them, “She adores you.”

“So does he,” Enjolras hears someone snicker behind him and he swivels with wide eyes, to look at the group of his friends.

He’s sure his face is bright red when he turns back to the teacher again. But the man has dropped his eyes to his phone.

“Éponine is on her way,” he says.

“Right, well,” Enjolras clears his throat, glossing right over his friends’ attempt to embarrass them both. “In the mean time, this is Feuilly. Bahorel. Courfeyrac and Combeferre, Uncle Valjean, and Jehan and my sister Cosette are backstage.”

Grantaire shakes hands with at least one of them, before he’s pulled into some tight introductory hugs.

“Oh, alright,” he laughs as he reaches up a hand, clapping the back of whoever is currently draining his life force by wrapping themselves around him.

“And these are the ones I think you are familiar with,” Enjolras tilts his head back at Joly, Bossuet, and Marius, practically jumping for their turn to speak with him, “Although I didn’t know you knew my sister’s fiancé.”

“And I didn’t know he was engaged to your sister,” Grantaire grins madly at the man, “He’s an old friend.”

“So he’s said,” Enjolras nods, “I’m going to need that explained to me at some point.”

Grantaire tilts his mouth mischievously, “Not sure that’s my story to tell.”

“Well, now, we all need to hear it,” Bahorel chuckles.

“Hey, R,” Bossuet, tired of waiting, pushes past them and pulls Grantaire right into a big hug. Then he pulls back, wrapping his hands around Grantaire’s shoulders firmly, “Look at you, man. I haven’t seen you look so smitten since—“

“If you say her name,” Grantaire practically hisses through a toothy smile, “I might hurt you.”

“Okay, you don’t know me, but immediately I am intrigued,” Courfeyrac chimes in from beside them, “and I am going to get that story, and all of the stories, out of you one way or another.”

“It’s true,” says Marius, “He’s like a hypnotist.”

“Guys,” Enjolras mutters embarrassedly, and the laugh it draws out of Grantaire makes him shiver.

Éponine arrives not long after he does, which Enjolras thanks God for. It’s not that Grantaire isn’t handling the sudden onslaught of questions well, but Enjolras finds himself much more nervous about the way he’s getting interrogated.

He’s not sure who exactly he is worried about liking who. Should he be worried that his friends won’t like Grantaire? Or that Grantaire won’t like his friends?

“Alright?” Grantaire smiles at him, during a split second where everyone is busy quizzing Éponine.

Enjolras tries not to be dazzled by the goofy grin and nods.

“Enjolras!” a woman’s clear voice cuts right through the noise and the group turns.

Bahorel is so quick to wrap her up in a bear hug that Grantaire doesn’t actually see what she looks like until she’s demanded he put her down.

“How were the skies?” Enjolras asks with a grin as he leans in to kiss her cheek.

She receives the kiss with a groan that doesn’t sound as tired as she means it to be. Something about the way the woman carries herself makes everything shine, lifts the very room up on her smile.

“They were a dream,” she says.

Enjolras keeps an arm slung around her shoulders when he pulls back, turning her towards their newcomers.

“Grantaire, Éponine, this is Ninon’s mother, Floréal.”

“Ah, the prodigal teachers,” Floréal steps forward to envelop them both in her slim arms, “I’m sorry it’s taken us this long to meet.”

Over Floréal’s shoulder, Éponine makes a face at Grantaire that Enjolras can’t quite read. All it receives from Grantaire is a nod.

“My family adores you,” Floréal says and Enjolras presses a fist to his mouth, turning to the snickering Bahorel with a burning face, “You two are all I hear about when I come home. I feel like I know you already.”

She exchanges a glance with Combeferre that makes Enjolras want to bury them both.

It is just then that the lights change in the hall, forcing the group to take their seats.

Enjolras feels as though there is a higher power somewhere that he should be thanking.

Just before the lights come up on Fantine taking centre stage, Floréal tugs at Enjolras’ elbow. He leans in, just to hear her whisper approvingly, “Nice.”

“Nice what?” he asks, but he’s too late to catch his own gaze – it turns to Grantaire beside him.

When he turns back to Floréal, her eyes are narrowed and he can feel the heat of her gaze even in the darkness.

“’Nice what,’” she snorts.

The performances are enjoyable enough. Many of the younger children are very adorable and everyone claps loudly at the end of each, because they aren’t barbarians.

When it’s Ninon’s turn to perform, Fantine takes the stage to introduce her. Jehan must have declined his right to introduce her as the girl’s teacher, or else he would be the one speaking. But Fantine, ever the artist of words, speaks beautifully.

“Our last performer,” she says, her eyes sparkling with anticipation, “at just nine years old, is an absolute cello prodigy. We at Fantine’s are all so grateful that this musician blesses us with her presence and performance week after week. Please put your hands together for Ninon Kim Enjolras!”

The cheers that erupt at her name shake the ground.

She clearly feels the effect of them, her cheeks pink as she walks onto the stage and takes her place at the chair in front of the microphone. Jehan walks out shortly after, setting her cello before her and taking his place in front of the piano.

When Ninon turns her head, the spotlight catches a yellow daisy weaved into her braid. It matches the one Jehan has pinned to his vest.

Jehan stretches his fingers at the piano and gives the girl a big smile and nod.

Enjolras’ hands come up to his chest when his girl starts to play. The first few bars give her away instantly and he straightens his back with pride and appreciation.

Ninon looks so much smaller up on stage beside her cello. But the smile on her face grows her ten feet tall and they’re all transfixed. And her confidence when she plays makes her look more like her father than ever before.

Her bow slides through the air and against the strings with such grace and precision. Her face looks so at peace and yet so enamored with the music and the instrument itself. She is where she belongs.

Enjolras’ chest swells and he reaches over, to squeeze Floréal’s hand to thank her, like he has innumerable times, for the gift that is his little girl.

“That’s his favourite song,” he hears Courfeyrac whisper to Grantaire beside him.

“Mine too,” Grantaire admits.

Enjolras’ heart skips a beat. He thinks he hears Courfeyrac mutter, “That tiny evil genius.”

He turns to give the man a glare that hushes him right up.

But that tiny evil genius, indeed. It is not unlike the girl to remember her father’s favourite song, and to use it in such an emotional way against him. It is also not unlike the girl to remember that Grantaire had been humming the song a month prior and proclaimed it his favourite when the girl had asked what it was.

There’s a beat of silence when the song ends. And then everybody is on their feet, screaming and clapping, none louder than Enjolras and Floréal.

When Ninon emerges from backstage, her hand laced in her mother’s arm, she’s hit with a wave of praise from her family. Grantaire and Éponine stand back, hands crossed before them, eyes lit up with their own adoration.

“Éponine! M. Grantaire!” Ninon’s eyes light up when she sees them. The group parts for her as she skips towards the two and, elated by the reaction to her music and fueled by the love of the surrounding people, wraps her arms as far around Éponine as they will go. The woman rubs her back with a smile, before Ninon turns to Grantaire.

When Grantaire stoops down to hug her right back, Enjolras’ grin is blinding.

Joly makes sure to tell him so.

 

After the performance, Éponine and Grantaire are practically carried back to the house with the wrought-iron railings and the red door.

The two try not to lose their minds at the size of their home. It is something of an enigma to have so much space in Paris, enough space to host such a crowd comfortably.

“One of the only things the Enjolras’ ever did for their grandchild,” says Combeferre, with a scowl that would have made you think Ninon was his daughter, if you didn’t know any better.

This is something that all of them have in common, they come to realize. If this girl were a country, she would already have an army to destroy anything that dares try to touch her.

Grantaire is subject to much talk from Enjolras’ friends and family that day. Everything he doesn’t already know from the Great Game of Telephone that their friends like to play, he gets told.

Like, for instance, Uncle Valjean is not their actual uncle. There was quite a heroic story, involving Cosette and a runaway horse, and a gracious invitation for dinner as a thank you. And somehow, when their parents’ presence had faded from their lives, Valjean’s had returned burning brighter than ever. He’s the closest thing that Ninon has to a grandparent, or what a grandparent should be.

Or how Marius and Cosette had met, with an accidental stumble into an audition that had made her voice crack.

Or other things that make him fall even more in love with Enjolras. Like, Feuilly was his inspiration to go the way of refugee and immigration. As a young law student, Enjolras encountered the man and his father, who had fled from East Germany in 1985. He had opened a building company and, from there, hired as many people in need as he could afford and opened their home to as many people as it could take.

Or less emotional things, like a particular instance in which Enjolras had tried to climb onto a statue during a protest for immigration reform and had fallen off and broken his leg in three places.

In all honesty, that could have had the same effect as the preceding story.

And Ninon is so comfortable around them all. At first, it seemed out of character, the extent to which she would climb into their laps without ceremony and laugh loudly at their jokes with abandon. But after talking more with them, he realizes that, if they were to welcome you like they had him, there was no way not to want to share all of yourself.

Even Éponine, who often found her kindness shared only in the presence of children, found lending herself to the stories they told and the jokes they made easy.

“Wine?” Bahorel offers, when they’ve all settled into the living room, Grantaire in the corner of a couch beside Enjolras.

The man’s eyes turn sideways, watching him as subtly as he can from beneath his golden locks.

“Oh, no, I’m alright, thanks,” Grantaire raises his hands bashfully. When Bahorel cocks his head, the man finishes, “Open the door, you know?”

Feuilly’s hip finds Bahorel’s and the man’s eyes widen with recognition in the sudden quiet of the room.

“Shit, man,” he grins sheepishly, “Sorry. I totally forgot.”

Enjolras’ brow wrinkles; the story of Grantaire’s past wasn’t his to tell and Bahorel had let him know he had done it anyways. But Grantaire shows no signs of malice, no shame, no embarrassment.

“Don’t worry,” Grantaire shakes his head, “It happens more than you know.”

And they’re right back to it with a hidden smile from Enjolras, like the moment had never happened.

Grantaire is so caught up in every conversation he’s having, all the catching up with Joly and Bossuet and Marius, all the stories of Enjolras and Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s college shenanigans from Cosette, all the jokes from literally _everyone_ , that he loses all sense of time. He’s laughing so much that he can’t stop to feel any sort of tired catching up with him. He’s listening so intently he doesn’t register the guests trickling out one by one, that Éponine follows Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta out the door, grateful for the offer of a walk home.

It isn’t until Éponine gives him a look of excitement and encouragement and _goddamn it, man, just get with that already_ , that Grantaire realizes that he’s the last one left in the house besides Floréal.

As the door shuts behind the last four, Enjolras settles back into the seat beside him. “I’m sorry for all of that,” he says, “We can be a bit hectic.”

“No, don’t worry,” Grantaire raises both hands and confesses, “I loved it.”

The man beams back at him, clearly pleased at the reaction to the antics of his family.

“So did Éponine,” Grantaire adds.

“And we loved having you,” Floréal says from the couch opposite them, where they had almost just forgotten she was sitting.

The woman gently transfers Ninon’s head from her lap to a pillow, pushing herself to her feet. She turns to the two with a fox’s smile.

“So,” she says, reaching for the empty cheese plate on the coffee table, “I’m going to get a start on these dishes.”

Enjolras and Grantaire are halfway on their feet, reaching forward to grab some of the empty glasses and claiming their intentions to do the same, when Floréal barks at them.

“No, no,” she says, “You guys are chatting. You stay right here and I’ll take care of it. They’re mostly disposables anyways.”

Something about the authority in Floréal’s voice makes Enjolras sink back into the couch almost immediately. Grantaire takes one glance at the lawyer and follows suit. The woman is not someone to be trifled with.

She stares directly at Enjolras as she retreats back into the kitchen, as though she’s trying to have a conversation with him without actually saying anything. The man crosses his arms and pretends not to notice.

“So,” Grantaire clears his throat eventually, “She’s great.”

“She is,” Enjolras agrees.

“How did you two…” Grantaire trails off, unconsciously peeking at Ninon on the couch across from him. ‘Meet,’ he realizes he could have said, just a second too late. He opens his mouth to apologize but Enjolras starts to speak.

“It’s another one of those long stories you’ve been hearing all night,” he says, eyes watching the man, hopeful his ears are open.

Grantaire leans back, as if settling into the pillows, ready to listen.

“The night I met Floréal… it was Christmas Day. My father and I had gotten into a big fight about whether I was going into private or public law,” he exhales into his hand and then laces them before him, “It was so stupid… a premature fight, even then, I had just gone off to university. Barely started my degree.”

Grantaire nods sympathetically, waiting for the man to continue. He takes a glance back at Ninon, making sure she really is asleep, before he does just that.

“It got much more personal than that. My father… ended up throwing a clock at me. It didn’t hit me. But…”

Enjolras’ speech is littered with pauses and reluctance. He closes his eyes and breathes slowly out of his mouth. Grantaire shifts forward and, without even realizing, his hand finds Enjolras’ knee.

“You don’t have to go on,” he says, quietly.

“No, I… it’s good. I haven’t talked about this in a long time,” Enjolras admits. Grantaire nods and smiles, and somewhere in between the actions, in some small fleeting moment, Enjolras finds the courage to go on. “It was just more than it had ever been. It had always been tense but he never did anything physical until then.”

He stares at Grantaire’s hand on his knee. Grantaire is staring at it, too, suddenly, but before he can pull it away, Enjolras’ fingertips find his. Grantaire looks back up the man but his eyes still drown in the story he tells. He plays with Grantaire’s hand like a second thought, like a reflex. But it’s not mundane; it’s careful. Like it’s a comfort. Like it’s right.

“Instead of reprimanding my father for what he had done, my mother had told me to leave the house,” he continues. He notes with surprise that it doesn’t taste as bitter in his mouth as it always had before, “Cosette begged me not to go but I couldn’t turn around. Not after that. I grabbed the first bottle I could get my hands on from the cabinet and left.”

“I was told you aren’t a drinker,” Grantaire tilts an eye at the man jokingly.

Enjolras practically jumps to defend himself, “Oh, I’m not, I promise—“

Laughter pulls at Grantaire’s eyes, sparking a smile on the man’s face. Slowly Enjolras realizes the statement was a joke and he joins in on the laughter, shaking his head.

“Anyways,” he continues, knocking his foot against Grantaire’s with a playful scowl, “The bottle I picked up, bless my father’s soul, was a bottle of tequila.”

“No,” Grantaire exclaims and Enjolras chuckles, his free hand coming up to rub against his eyes.

“Straight from the bottle. All night,” he sighs.

“Look at you,” Grantaire grins, nudging Enjolras’ knee with his, “Badass.”

“I was always a badass,” Enjolras wrinkles his nose at the man.

“Mm,” Grantaire nods, “as evidenced by the Great Statue Incident of sophomore year. How many places was it, again, that you broke your leg?”

The two dissolve into laughter, feeling bubbly and high at the hour of the night.

“Anyways,” Enjolras looks back at his sleeping daughter, his eyes filled with an adoration that Grantaire hasn’t seen in a father in years. “You lose family… you gain something more.”

Grantaire stares right at him, watching him look over his daughter. He keeps his gaze on the man when it turns back to him. They stay like that for a couple of seconds, until Grantaire drops his eyes, just to say, “Amen.”

He can feel Enjolras itching to ask about that. He curses himself for baiting the attention, but Enjolras must realize he doesn’t actually want to expand with the way Grantaire has dropped his eyes away. He asks about something else instead.

“What made you quit drinking?” Enjolras asks and Grantaire looks back up. He feels the defense building in his shoulders, but Enjolras just smiles comfortingly at him. “I told you mine,” he says softly, “I think it’s only fair that you tell me yours.”

Grantaire admits that it’s a convincing argument. Even if he hadn’t, the number of the stories that had been shared with him that day was grossly unfair compared to how much Enjolras knew about him. (He decides to give Joly and Bossuet enough credit to assume his indecencies were not relayed to Enjolras.)

It does scare Grantaire, a lot, that Enjolras would want to know. But everything scary is worth a try, especially when the man sitting across from him looks like he does and acts like he does.

“Me,” Grantaire says finally, “I made me quit drinking.”

Enjolras doesn’t say anything, then. Just waits for him to elaborate, drawing soft circles on the back of Grantaire’s hand with his thumb.

“I was doing pretty badly. Bossuet and Éponine, on occasion…” Grantaire exhales, drops his eyes away from the man’s hand, “had to come get me from houses with addresses I didn’t even know. I got in a couple of fights that left me with stitches.”

Enjolras tilts his head and Grantaire turns to show the man the flesh of his neck, the scar just above his collar. He taps at his inner forearm, where a bird’s wing curves around a long, raised bit of skin.

“When you’re deep in it like I was… I must have had my first drink when I was twelve, honestly,” Grantaire exhales, “It’s hard to get out. It’s hard to stop and it hurts and it’s…”

He takes a couple of beats to get his breathing back to normal, to stop his eyes from stinging. He doesn’t want to lose it in that house, with Enjolras before him, and his student asleep on the couch, and her mother in the kitchen.

But he wants him to know. He does and he can’t pinpoint exactly why. Maybe he figures, if Enjolras will learn about it somehow, it might as well be from the source directly. He’s not looking to relay any sort of sob story, honestly. He just wants to make sure that Enjolras sees it from his point of view.

His friend’s, bless their souls, would paint him out to be just as changed, just as reformed as he believes he is. But he wanted to lay out all of his scars for Enjolras to see, so he could decide for himself, if Grantaire was worthy of what he wanted from him.

“You start to hate looking in the mirror,” he says finally, his nose red from pinching, “I just wanted to see myself again. See if I was anything under all of that.”

“And what did you find?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire looks up at him, his chest tightened and his hands shaking.

“An artist,” he says, like it’s something he hasn’t admitted to himself. “A teacher. Someone who wants to make something out of nothing.”

Enjolras nods. Something of a smile twitches on his lips, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“I think I realized that life doesn’t last,” Grantaire says, “and it’s you who’s got to make it good for something.”

“Agreed.”

“You know, I’m not good at much else,” he admits, “But teaching. It might be all I have but I wouldn’t change it.”

He looks up at the man, the dim light against his sloping cheekbones, catching his blue eyes.

“I never knew I could make a difference until those kids showed me I could,” Grantaire mumbles, “I need them as much as they need me. No. I need them more.”

And then there are no more words for him to say. He’s made his case for who he is and all he can do now is wait for Enjolras’ reply.

Which comes in the form of a huff; a rise of his eyebrows and a short puff of air from between his lips

“What?” Grantaire asks.

“I just…” Enjolras swallows, then exhales like what he’s saying is trying to wrestle its way out of him. “I can’t believe it took so long for us to meet. We’re two degrees away, on every side, and still it’s only just now…”

He trails off. He’s staring at Grantaire, that arm’s length away from him. He doesn’t know how to continue his sentence, because all he can do is look at him and everything he is.

Grantaire forgets himself. He leans forward and Enjolras is leaning forward to meet him.

Neither of them dares touch more than their lips. Both of them are familiar to addiction in their own ways, Grantaire to the bottle, Enjolras to justice, and so they know that if they were to touch much more, they wouldn’t be able to get enough.

But it’s perfect the way it is, with the pressure of each other’s lips, the gentle peck and then the lean-in for more. Enjolras catches Grantaire’s bottom lip between his and Grantaire sighs right into his mouth.

 

“Right.”

The two pull away immediately as Floréal makes her way back into the room, a smug look hidden beneath her brow. She must have been listening for the whole conversation; it’s not something unheard of for the woman. Enjolras suspects every word will be texted to Courfeyrac or Musichetta soon enough.

“I think we should be going,” she says, moving over to the couch where Ninon lies.

“You don’t want to just stay here?” Enjolras asks and Floréal widens her eyes at him and crosses her arms.

“No,” she says, her voice sweet, contrary to the daggers she’s glaring at him, “All that time away from home, I’d rather have my own bed.”

“Well, we can walk you over, at least,” Grantaire pipes up, “Least we can do, what with it all dark outside.”

To Enjolras’ dismay, the man pulls his jacket on and tucks the book that Combeferre had stolen for him from Enjolras’ bookshelf under his arm. He tries not to look too disappointed; but he really doesn’t need to. Floréal is looking it enough for the both of them.

Floréal’s apartment, it turns out, is just down the street. Enjolras carries Ninon over on his back, her weekend bag slung over Grantaire’s shoulder as they speak a few steps behind.

Enjolras burns with curiosity, but every time he tries to slow his step, Ninon stirs.

They reach the apartment in no time at all and Enjolras feels the nervousness skirting the bottom of his feet, shooting static electricity through his legs, from his fingertips up his arms, from the pit of his stomach to his collarbones.

“Thank you guys,” she reaches forward, opening her arms for the girl. Ninon shifts sleepily, draping her arms over her mother’s shoulders as Enjolras hands her carefully over. Floréal leans into Enjolras as he wraps his arms around both of them, placing a soft kiss into Floréal’s hair as she turns towards his ear.

“If you let him go home, I’m taking your daughter away from you,” Floréal threatens jokingly.

Enjolras’ eyes are wide with warning, but her face is innocent when she pulls away.

“It was nice meeting you,” Floréal calls to Grantaire, just before she closes the door.

When he turns again, Grantaire stands there with a sheepish smile, the book gripped tight in his hand. He shifts his weight on his feet and shivers in the cold of the winter night.

Something about it is so endearing that Enjolras takes a deep breath, marches right up to him, and pulls him back into a kiss with one hand laced around the back of his neck.

It’s more desperate than it had been in the house, more eager, more frantic. Enjolras feels the corners of the book press into his back as Grantaire’s arms come around to pull him even closer. He melts right into the man’s warmth.

To be honest, Enjolras hasn’t propositioned anybody in years. He can’t stand the sheer cheesiness of asking the man in under the ruse of ‘coffee.’ He decides he is an adult, and hopes it comes across so, when he mutters against Grantaire’s lips with a hopeful smile, “Will you come back in?”

He feels Grantaire’s surprise right into his limbs. He tilts his head back a little, just so he can see Grantaire’s face beneath the street lights. His lips are parted, his breath shortened by the kissing, his nose already red from the cold.

“On one condition,” Grantaire says and Enjolras’ smile falls from his face.

“Anything,” he says.

“That you let me take you out on a proper date sometime,” Grantaire says and Enjolras’ chest swells with the way he is so nervous about it, so doubtful of the man’s agreement even though he’s right here, right in front of him, with his arms clutching to him so hungrily.

He lets out a shaky breath and lets his hand fall to tug at Grantaire’s. “I think I can manage that,” he says, as he leads the man back down the street.

It’s dark out, and it’s just started to snow. But neither of them feel it; only the warmth of their hands clutched together, the lingering touch of each other’s lips, and the promise of more lying in wait.

 

 

v.                   december

A year later, Grantaire finds himself out in the hall, speaking with Éponine, just as Musichetta decides to hang up her students’ family trees. She looks him right in the eye with a mischievous grin as she unfolds Ninon’s.

It’s almost a mess, the amount of names that are on it, with different colours and styles of lines. It’s much more crowded than the one she had made in Grantaire’s class a year before.

Éponine and Gavroche are on there now, as are Musichetta and Joly and Bossuet.

But Grantaire’s eyes draw to his own name. It’s tied right to her father’s, with one of the solid black lines she’s reserved for family.

He walks right up to make sure he’s seen it right. His finger comes up, to gently trace the line, to follow it across to his boyfriend’s, and down to hers. He tears up, right there, right in the hallway with the students filtering out around them.

It is not just a man, not just a true love, he had found when he found Enjolras. It was a family, something much bigger and much crazier than what he had before. He takes any reminder that he’s a part of it with immense gratitude, and that is how he takes the poster before him.

And, as Enjolras will discover later that night, the poster makes his proposal, for Grantaire to move in with them, into the house with the wrought-iron railing and the red door, much easier to agree to.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Whew, I am messy and careless with POV, I apologize. Haven’t written anything in this long in, ever, probably.  
> 2\. For those wondering about my casting for Floréal and Ninon, I will point you to Claudia Kim and, despite her being a bit too young, the adorable Lauren Hanna Lunde.  
> 3\. The events at Ninon’s past schools were inspired by the 2012 movie _Won’t Back Down_.  
>  4\. The song is inspired by the Take Me to Church cover by the Brooklyn Duo.


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